*34 
The Poetry of Flowers. 
Culled to bloom upon the breast, 
Since rough thorns the stem invest, 
They must be gathered with the rest, 
And with it to the heart be prest; 
Just like love. 
And when rude hands the twin buds sever, 
They die, and they shall blossom never ; 
Yet the thorns be sharp as ever ; 
Just like love. 
GO TO THE FOREST SHADE.” 
BY MRS. HEMANS. 
Go to the forest shade— 
Seek thou the well-known glade, 
Where, heavy with sweet dew, the Violets lie, 
Gleaming through moss-tufts deep, 
Like dark eyes filled with sleep, 
And bathed in hues of summer’s midnight sky. 
Bring me their buds, to shed 
Around my dying bed 
A breath of May, and of the wood's repose ; 
For I in sooth depart 
With a reluctant heart, 
That fain would linger where the bright sun glows. 
Fain would I stay with thee— 
Alas ! this may not be ; 
Yet bring me still the gifts of happier hours 1 
Go where the fountain’s breast 
Catches, in glassy rest, 
The dim green light that pours through laurel 
bowers. 
